


360.5

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Dancing, Exhibitionism, Gay Bar, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Voyeurism, unknowing participants in voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One would think that working as a page at the university library would be relatively peaceful, but what John spies through the gap in the shelves changes his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonikaKrasnorada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/gifts).



> Inspired by [this video](http://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=136932721) posted by [MonikaKrasnorada](http://monikakrasnorada.tumblr.com). (Warning: it's porn) Many thanks to her both for the inspiration and for beta-ing. Please heed the tags.

John had to admit it. He was warned.

Well, perhaps warned was too strong a word. When he had started as a page at the university library, people had made passing mention of certain lascivious goings on in secluded parts of the stacks, but it was all discussed in the abstract. It was a joke. Or an urban legend. And even if it really happened, it was supposed to be in places where no one went. If no one went there, he wouldn’t have to shelve there.

So, while he may have heard the giggling and whispering about it, he gave it about as much thought as the latest ridiculous Facebook post. He thought nothing of the muffled sounds as he made his way down the second-to-last row of the third-floor stacks. It was always someone chatting or tapping their foot on a shelf anyway. He slid each book into place on its shelf, focus myopic on classification numbers.

A book held high above his head, John pushed up to his tippy toes to put it away. It was only the barest exhalation that caused his gaze to flick through the gap between shelves, but when he did, he froze, his mouth hanging open.

The first thing he noticed was a throat--long and sinewy with a hollow at the base that just begged for, oh, any number of debaucheries--with a mouth latched to the side of it. Though the top of the shelf blocked John’s view of the face belonging to that throat, he could see the bunched-up fabric of a black t-shirt, thick-framed glasses tucked into the collar, and pale pectorals just below. Muscles shifted under freckled skin--trapezius, deltoid, bicep, tricep--as the other man undulated, huffs slowly gaining volume, his fingers toying with nipples that were just out of John’s line of sight. But, if he leaned forward just a little bit...

He felt a dust cover slip against his suddenly sweaty palm, and time slowed as he watched it hit the corner of the shelf and tumble over the back of his hand. The toe of his shoe caught on a frayed edge of his jeans, but he was somehow able to keep himself from landing face first in the book cart as he got his hands underneath the incendiary nonfiction. It bounced against the heel of his hand, doing an impressive acrobatics act before finally coming to rest grasped between John’s palms.

He breathed a sigh of relief until four words made it catch in his throat.

“Did you hear something?”

John dropped to a stoop, hoping to God that one of them didn’t come around the corner. This didn’t look guilty at all. The roar of John’s blood filled his ears until finally a dramatic sigh cut through the din.

“Does it matter?” came a rumbling, velvety voice, and if that voice came out of that throat, God, that could be wank material for weeks.

John stayed in his crouched position until the sounds of the other men’s breathing grew heavy and huffed. Once he was sure they were sufficiently distracted, he jumped to his feet, dropping the book back onto the cart and running down the row, wheels squeaking all the way.

He could finish shelving up here later.

***

If John’s first mistake was ignoring his coworkers, his second mistake was talking to them. The day after he had mentioned what he saw up here, every stack of books at his workspace was filled with obscure chemistry volumes. He didn’t want to say that his coworkers had checked out and returned stacks of books only to send John up to the sex corner, but they had checked out and returned stacks of books just to send him to the sex corner.

So here he was, pushing heavy books high and low--berks couldn’t have at least taken from the middle shelves?--unable to tell whether any heavy breathing he heard was his own or someone else’s. He may have been wary in the first, say, twenty minutes after getting off the lift, but at the moment he was too busy plotting revenge. Besides, he had decided the night before, he was just doing his job. They were the ones who should be embarrassed. They knew they were caught out. Only an idiot would return to the same spot after that.

He winced at the sound of heavy footfalls from some indeterminate place and was just about to chastise himself for being paranoid when a pair of bodies flashed by his periphery. John’s head popped up, his gaze darting about like a meercat’s. And he might have been able to convince himself it was nothing if the lines of books a few meters away hadn’t shuddered, some of the bindings shuffling to peek over the edges of their perches.

His eyes narrowed and lips pursed crookedly. Even as he thrilled at imagining what was happening on the other side of the incomplete barrier, anger flared, burning up his esophagus. He would be damned if he had to reshelve all those books.

He slammed the book in his hands back to the cart, marching over to the jostled books. He was going to give those blokes a piece of his mind. Had they no sense of self preservation? If he wanted, he could have them arrested, and he had half a mind to if they didn’t stop making the shelves quake.

They stilled just before John got there, a dull thump sounding from the other side. Finally.

John paused perpendicular to the stacks, head cocked as he listened for the sounds floating over from the other side. It was quiet. Maybe they had given it up. Maybe they knew they were caught. Surely that’s what happened. He didn’t need to look. He’d just turn away, walk back to his cart and finish putting books away. Perhaps bring his earbuds to work tomorrow.

But even as these thoughts bounced around inside his noggin, his face was turning toward the shelves, his body ducking to view through them.

This angle was no good. All he saw were clothed torsos pressed together. If he shifted up a bit, he could catch a glimpse of a black leather belt threaded through the loops of a dark pair of jeans, the crests of a pair of back pockets on what looked to be a fine arse indeed. But this wasn’t where the real action was happening.

John shifted to his tiptoes until his eyeline rose above the tops of the books on the next shelf. He could see their heads from this angle, both facing away from him. He couldn’t be sure if these men were the ones from the day before. The one against the shelves had a beard, and John was pretty certain that both men from yesterday were clean shaven. The other one appeared to be beard free, but as the back of his head was facing John, it was hard to tell for sure. His hair was cut close on the back and sides, but that didn’t stop a single curl from forming at his nape.

Could this be the throat and voice he encountered the day before? He wore a similar t-shirt--dark and close-fitting--and his back looked like it would go with the lean chest he saw.

John’s gaze flitted back to what he could see of their faces in time to see nape curl grab the bearded man’s wrists and push them up against the shelves by both their heads. He murmured something into the beard’s ear, and then John’s heartbeat kicked up a notch, his breath catching in his throat.

Nape curl pulled a pair of thick-framed glasses from his face and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. What were the chances that two men of similar builds with similar glasses came to the same place for public sex? It had to be the same bloke, even if it was a different partner.

The one with the beard gripped the edge of a shelf, and nape curl’s hands disappeared out of John’s line of sight. But, whatever he did with those hands made the other man gasp and press back against nape curl’s body.

John had to see what was going on with those hands. Those lovely, delicate, huge hands.

He ducked down to yet another strata and peered through the gap, this time getting a prime view of a denim-clad arse squeezing and relaxing as its owners hips thrust against the other denim-clad arse in front of him. John couldn’t see exactly what nape curl’s hands were doing, but he could see where they disappeared behind hips, making those same hips rock. He could see a slim wrist sliding down, hear the metallic whisper of a zipper through the silence around them.

Oh, dear God. What was he doing? Was this really happening? Was he really crouched in front of a bookshelf about to watch two men have sex? He’d only been at the job for a few days, and it had already come to this. He was a dirty peeper.

He shook his head at himself, resolving to walk away, but then nape curl hooked his thumb into the waistband of the other man’s jeans. His hand slid down the man’s hip, taking both trousers and pants with it, and goosebumps raised over the crest of John’s hipbones, chasing each other to his spine and on up to the back of his neck.

That same thumb circled around, meeting the other at the bearded man’s cleft, pressing between arse cheeks as he slid his hands down, exposing the other man’s arse. Although the one with the beard had a rather nice arse, firm and athletic, John’s gaze fixated on nape curl’s hands, on long fingers brushing up and down denim as his thumbs slid in between the other man’s legs. Even as the other man rocked and writhed, even as his voice rose in pitch, even as a shushing sound hissed by John’s ear, loud in the silence, he watched the hands. He imagined how they would feel against his own thighs, nails dragging down thick fabric making it vibrate against John’s skin.

John bit his lip against the sound that threatened to squeak from his throat, his hands gripping the edge of the shelf.

“Please,” one of them whispered, and the word was followed by a low chuckle that rumbled over John, making him shiver.

No more words were spoken, but nape curl’s hands circled back to the other man’s front, disappearing again from John’s view, pushing the other man’s jeans to his thighs. He stepped up close behind, pressing the whole length of his body to the other man’s body, effectively blocking John’s view from everything but the contracting and relaxing of the muscles in nape curl’s arms and the hypnotizing circles of his arse.

God, what an arse, but no matter how shapely, no matter how mesmerizing, no matter how much John just wanted to bite it, he had to see what was going on with those hands. Hell, he didn’t even know if nape curl was still all buttoned up in his jeans or not, and that just could not go unexplored.

With a lick of his lips, John shifted to the next shelf over, catching an oblique angle of the action. Barely a slice, really, but it was enough. Nape curl’s hand worked over the other one’s cock, making John’s pulse and strain, making John’s fist clench and release against his thigh. He swallowed, his mouth as dry as the dining hall’s chicken.

Nape curl’s jeans were still fastened, much to John’s chagrin, but his groin pressed tight to the other man’s arse, the tent in his jeans nudging between his partner’s thighs. Somehow, that was even better, imagining the feel of rough denim against his thighs, long fingers sliding up and down his length, reaching back to tickle his balls. Maybe John would lean his head back on nape curl’s chest, let it loll to the side. Maybe nape curl’s lips would caress his neck. Maybe his tongue would lick. Maybe he would suck, bite, bruise.

With a start, John realized his mouth was wide open, breath rushing audibly in and out, and he clapped his hand over his mouth.

Fuck! This was out of control. This was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done, and that was saying something. If he were sane, he would have walked away the second that shelf shuddered. And if he were doing his job properly, he would have asked them to leave the building.

He was shit at his job. And completely fucking out of his mind. It was horrifying and glorious, and his gaze never left his little sliver of paradise. He could hear uneven, stuttering breaths through the gaps in the the shelves, and he wondered if they could hear him breathing. He took slow breaths through his nose, his heart racing and lungs screaming for more oxygen. The edges of his vision went hazy. His knees and thighs began to shake.

He couldn’t stay in this crouch for much longer. Something had to give.

And apparently, it was the one with the beard. A quickly muffled shout shattered the quiet, and then nape curl’s palm curled over the other man’s glans, catching his come before it could hit the books. Thank God. John would not have wanted to clean that up.

Nape curl stepped back, and the other man slumped against the shelves, one of his hands pawing at a shelf by his waist.

“God,” he sighed. “That was incredible.”

Nape curl hummed, tugging a square packet from his pocket. He ripped it open and pulled out a wet wipe, swabbing the semen from his hand. Once his hand was clean, he folded it up and slipped it back into its wrapper, tucking the whole of it into his pocket.

After fastening his trousers, the other man turned around, leaning against the shelf as he reached for nape curl’s crotch. “Want me to take care of that for you?”

Nape curl hummed again, pulling his phone from his other pocket. “Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure?” The other man sidled up, draping himself along one side of nape curl’s body. “I may not be up to your caliber, but I’ve had no complaints.”

Nape curl grunted, and after a long pause he said, “Oh. What? No. Don’t want to introduce too many variables.”

“Jesus. I heard you ran hot and cold, but I had no idea.” He stepped away, fists clenched at his hips. “Variables.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Of course,” nape curl muttered.

Panic drummed behind John’s ribs. They were done. They were about to leave, and here he was stooped right at crotch level. He dropped to one knee, his legs protesting as he pushed himself to his feet. Pins and needles buzzed like static through his calves, pain shooting up his leg each time he shifted his weight.

“You’re so full of shit,” the bearded man hissed as John attempted to shuffle towards his book cart.

_Nonchalant. You’re just here shelving books. You didn’t see anything._

“I’m sorry,” came nape curl’s suddenly loud voice. “Did you not just have, by your own admission, incredible sex?”

John grabbed the top railing of the book cart, holding most of his weight on the heel of his hand and praying to every deity he could think of for it not to roll out from underneath him.

“That’s not-- Actually, no. Never mind. Forget this ever happened.”

John didn’t turn towards the sounds of stomping feet. He was just grateful that they didn’t pause. One down; one to go. He curled his toes in his shoes, feeling slowly returning. He shifted from one foot to another, testing his balance.

“Mm hm. All right,” nape curl muttered.

John listened to a faint tapping sound that he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It didn’t actually seem possible that he would be able to hear that over the nervous tinnitus. But it felt like he could hear every slow, even inhale and exhale of his hidden companion. Could hear the shift of shoes against piled carpeting. The susurrus prickled at the back of his neck, and although his legs still felt heavy, he took a deep breath and grabbed the nearest book from the cart, sliding it into proper place before grabbing another.

His gaze stayed focused on the task at hand, not daring even a glance to one side or the other, and certainly not meandering to the gaps in front of him.

So, it was more of a feeling than a view that brought his attention to a lanky figure at the end of the aisle. John stared for too long at the string of numbers at the spine of the book in his hand, struggling to turn them into coherence as he focused on the view in his periphery. He got little more than a blur of dark colors and pale skin because there was no way he would actually look straight on at the bloke. He knew he was caught out, but he didn’t exactly desire a confrontation in the middle of the stacks. Even if he had more right to be here than this bloke who was still standing at the end of the aisle.

How long was he going to stay there? John reached up, placing the book in his hand at the end of the row. It probably didn’t actually go there, but he couldn’t just stand here staring at his hands under the palpable gaze of this stranger. He could feel those eyes scan him from top to bottom like they were making a 3D model, and just when he was sure he’d had enough, the figure spun on his heel and strode away.

John blew out a long breath of relief and promptly laughed at himself. He was being ridiculous.

***

A few days later, John was once again putting books away near the sex corner. Truly his coworkers were the pitbulls of the library world. Once they latched onto something, they were not letting go. He’d been there every day for the past week, often shelving the same books again.

He hadn’t seen nape curl since the last incident. Perhaps he recovered enough of a sense of self-preservation to leave it off, or find another place. Perhaps it was just coincidence, or perhaps his new-found practice of wearing headphones had actually helped. He liked to think so, even if it did have the unfortunate side effect of making him jump out of his skin every time someone needed to ask a question.

Which wasn’t to say that he’d let down his guard, and thank God he hadn’t, because when he came up to his toes to shelve a book, he wasn’t surprised by what he spied through the opening. Nape curl had his back to John again, his lips obscenely mobile against his partner’s--this time a tawny man with a tattoo climbing his neck like ivy--rutting against him like a stag in November.

This time, John wasn’t shocked into clumsiness or immobility. Instead, he shoved home the book in his hand, making a low metallic thunk. He balanced on his toes, waiting for the inevitable panic or embarrassment. A smug smile crossed his features. _Ha! Who’s the one misbehaving now?_

Nape curl paused, cocking his head to the side, and after a moment, the corner of his mouth curled upward. He looked just as smug as John had felt just a minute ago. But of course that was all gone now because nape curl set right back to it.

Two pairs of arms flew upward through John’s field of vision, and a moment later, a metallic thunk echoed back to him. Nape curl’s partner’s upper arms bounced loosely against the shelf by his head, while nape curl’s arms were all tension, his mouth dipping to his partner’s neck, tracing the lines of the tattoo.

Neck tattoo’s head thumped against the shelf, his body dropping until his arms drew taut. He squirmed against nape curl’s onslaught, small whimpers escaping through tight-pressed lips. They grew louder until, with a shift of shoulder muscles, nape curl’s hand dropped to his partner’s mouth.

Nape curl shushed against his partner’s ear, murmuring just within John’s range of hearing, “You wouldn’t want to get caught, would you?”

John was sure he didn’t imagine nape curl’s smirk as neck tattoo shook his head, and a cold spike of guilt pierced his gut even as his fingers buzzed with excitement.

“Really?” Nape curl’s hand dropped from his partner’s mouth, sliding down his neck and disappearing from John’s view. “In my experience, many people find the prospect thrilling.” His teeth grazed his partner’s pulse point. “Someone could come by at any moment. What might they think?”

Neck tattoo groaned loud and long, his breath coming in ragged pants, his shoulders thumping rhythmically against the shelf. Nape curl’s shoulder flexed and released in time, his nose pressed to the tattoo, whispering encouragements that John only half caught. God only knew just what was going on with that hand, but the thought had John pressing the sympathetic heel of his own hand to the bulge in his jeans.

John swallowed hard. He had to stop. This was a bridge too far. His heart raced, threatening to make a break for it right through his breastbone and down the aisle. His stomach clenched.

But his hips rocked, pressing his cock against his palm, and a frisson of arousal zinged through his nerves, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It nearly doubled him over, the fingers of his free hand clenching around the edge of a shelf. It was amazing he hadn’t cried out.

“You’re going to make me come in my pants,” neck tattoo whined.

 _You have no idea_ , John thought sardonically.

“Good,” said nape curl, and John shivered, squeezing his fingers into a fist against his thigh and thumping it once. He had to get a handle on himself. This was so wrong.

“Show everyone how I can make you feel,” nape curl continued. “Go on. Do it. Don’t you want it?”

“Yes,” hissed neck tattoo. “Yes, yes, yes.”

John’s nails bit into his palm; his knuckles went white, and adductor pollicis cramped where he gripped the shelf. His cock throbbed against its confines, the teeth of his zip digging into the flesh, and it was so nice as to remind John that he could ease the pressure if he would only open his flies.

Neck tattoo’s repeated assents grew higher and higher in pitch, terminating in a long moan that was quickly muffled. John imagined long fingers against his own mouth, stifling his own cries of pleasure as he spilled over the edge, and he bit into the heel of his hand to keep from moaning.

The breathing on the other side of the shelf gradually returned to normal, but John found him far behind the curve, shallow pants still dominating his breath as one of his voyees sighed.

“Wow,” neck tattoo said. “That was… wow.”

John let go of the shelf, forcing his fingers to stretch as they refused to follow suit, and hobbled back to his cart, his burgeoning embarrassment and shame refusing to quell his insistent erection. Why couldn’t his cock just listen to the rest of his body?

“Yes,” nape curl replied, and then John heard the tell-tale tapping of nape curl’s phone.

“Well, I suppose I should be going, then.”

“Mm.” And after a pause and a shuffle. “Best be going out the back. Fewer spectators.”

“Right,” the other man said, and John heard footsteps going down the aisle, away from him.

John sighed, grabbing a book from the cart, shaky fingers reaching for a shelf. He didn’t have to worry about being quiet anymore, he supposed. And he could ignore his cock until it stopped begging for attention.

The click of a phone locking seemed to echo in the acoustically tamped space. “I’ll be here the same time tomorrow.”

A hand reached through a gap between shelves, grabbing a book and snaking it back through.

“I’m sure there will be something to put away.”

John stood frozen, mouth gaping, as nape curl’s footsteps receded. He swallowed.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, for the rest of the week John had avoided encountering nape curl during one of his dalliances. It was easier to stay away when he knew what time they would be there. In a sense. Not so much in the sense that he checked his watch over and over again as the time approached, wondering if he’d be able to hold out this time, his cock screaming at him to _go, go, go!_

When he embarked on Operation No More Peeping, he thought it would get easier as the days went on. Instead, every book on his cart even approaching the 300s taunted him; a flash of body or snippet of silken speech may have well been etched on each spine. But somehow, he squeaked his way past the finish line on Saturday evening, ready for a day of reprieve. Except, here he was, elbows resting on the bartop in a gay dance club, as sexually frustrated as ever. And feeling like an idiot. 

If he had been here under other circumstances, he would have been out there on the floor trying to pull, but he brought Harry and her girlfriend here and promised to accompany them home. Why the hell did he have to be so magnanimous?

_Because you’re not going to leave your five-foot-nothing sister alone to navigate the London tube at three o’clock in the morning,_ he thought. He nodded, drinking a toast to his ongoing abstinence in the face of temptation, and ordering another one with a beer chaser.

He turned toward the teeming horde, beer glass slippery in his fingers. As he drank, he let the flashing colors and thumping beat wash over him. The writhing mass of bodies blurred in front of him, the view through the side of the glass giving the proceedings a hazy halo. The people blended together, and he couldn’t tell where one person ended and the other began, not that he had much desire for that. Well, he did, but best keep that at bay. He let his gaze go unfocused so he couldn’t torture himself with what he couldn’t have.

Despite his best efforts, one body in particular slowly came into sharp focus through the fog. Although he didn’t dance with anyone in particular--in fact, he eschewed all attempts to join him--his body moved in an expert display of natural sensuality. His dark t-shirt pulled tight across his chest as his shoulders rolled, revealing the outline of lean pectorals. While John was sure it must be his imagination through beer goggles over such a distance, he could swear he saw the sharp outline of nipples. He was also sure that he could see the deep vee of abdominal muscles and sharp jut of hipbones between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

John’s cock had to be giving him hallucinations.

He shook himself out of it, picking his jaw up off the floor and resolving to turn around, but it was too late. He was spotted. The dancer lifted his glasses off the bridge of his nose and stared right at John.

John checked behind him in some futile attempt to place the blame elsewhere or the hopeless fantasy that the man saw someone he knew. Even if John’s back was to everyone but the barman.

A crooked smirk spread on the dancer’s face as he continued to stare, and John fidgeted. It had been somewhat hard to tell underneath those ridiculous, giant gilded glasses, but the man had a beautiful face. Striking, really, with a jumble of curls on the crown of his head spilling over the tops of the glasses. Although John was able to rip his gaze from the dancer’s face, he couldn’t resist the occasional--or frequent--glance back.

Perching the glasses on his crown, the stranger went back to dancing, and as far as John could tell, his gaze never left John’s face, which burned under the scrutiny. So, he turned around, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp.

Coughing, tears streaming down his face, he ordered another, and a moment later, someone clapped him on the back several times.

“All right?” came a deep voice by John’s ear.

John nodded through the last of the coughs, but as his gaze lifted to the mirror behind the bar, he gasped. His face lit up in shades of red like a ruddy Christmas tree.

“Thanks,” John said, as much to the dancer as to the barman who placed a full glass in front of him, giving him something to distract himself with. He took a long sip and placed the glass carefully back down, drawing figure eights through the condensation with his thumb. He peered back up at the mirror. The dancer was still watching him.

“Don’t I know you?” the dancer asked, leaning his elbows against the bartop as his legs bounced to the music.

John looked closer at the striking face and glittering eyes. “I doubt it. I think I’d remember you.”

John cleared his throat and stared at his thumb. If this were any other night… Damn Harry. He took a deep breath and hazarded a glance to his side.

The dancer stared at him, eyes narrowed, lips pouted.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you about staring?” John asked.

The dancer hummed, rolling his shoulders to the beat. “I’m afraid I was never a good listener. Care to dance?”

“I can’t keep up with you.”

“Nonsense.” He leaned towards John, sliding his forearm along the bartop until he could wrap his fingers around John’s opposite elbow. “I’ll steer you around the curves.”

Well, how could John say no to that?

He followed the dancer to the main floor, staring at the jut of shoulder blades from the tight t-shirt. Even strolling towards the dance floor and navigating through the crowd, the man never stopped dancing. His shoulders rolled to the beat, his ribs sliding as if independent from his waist, and his hips. God, his hips. They popped, rolled, thrust in a hypnotising and unpredictable rhythm that made John’s mouth water and fingers itch.

Finally, the dancer paused and turned to John, and John couldn’t be sure which was louder, the thumping of his heart or of the bass beat in the subwoofers. He stepped into John’s space, looming tall even as he dipped enough to press his chest to John’s, and John decided that it was definitely his heart that was louder.

The man before him was a force to be reckoned with, and John froze with the pressure of it, his fingers hovering over the hips he was dying to get his hands on just moments ago. He pressed and rolled against John, urging him into motion, but John’s body only responded in small jerky movements. He shifted his feet side to side, he hoped with the beat, because he could barely hear it anymore over his own panic.

This man was clearly miles out of John’s league, and he had just been slammed face first into the proof. He never had any hope that he would ever be able to move like that. He felt clumsy, like all his limbs were too stiff and too short, while this bloke was as long and flexible as a noodle.

The dancer flipped his glasses down to the bridge of his nose and grabbed John’s hands, wrapping them firmly over his hips. John traced the crest of hip bones with his thumb and swallowed. A small amount of space still existed between their hips even if their chests pressed tight to each other, and John lamented the gap. But still, he swayed and shifted.

“You need to relax,” the dancer rumbled in John’s ear, and John knew he didn’t imagine the graze of teeth over his auricle.

John shivered and tilted his head back to speak into his partner’s ear. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock.”

“John,” he replied in a heavy huff. 

The vibrations of that voice dripped like honey down his back, warring with the driving beat under his toes, and finally his iron rod of a spine melted.

Sherlock’s hips drew a semi-circle between John’s hands, and John found his own hips chasing the movement, his hands tugging the elusive joints towards him. He felt Sherlock’s breath, hot and heavy on his ear, and goosebumps spread over his scalp.

Finally, their hips met, and the press of Sherlock’s made John’s roll and tip in counterpoint. He did it again, bumping his opposite hip into John’s and rolling against him. John let go, relaxing into the movements as Sherlock’s body played his like a fiddle, coaxing it into rhythm. His fingers roamed over Sherlock’s hips, his arse, fingertips slipping under the hem of his t-shirt to feel the soft skin on either side of his spine.

Sherlock’s head dipped over John’s shoulder, and the breath at the crook of his neck made John shiver. He’d never danced like this in his life. Sure, he had done his share of sexual miming on the dance floor, usually while he was much more drunk than this. But never had it been so fluid, so expert, so sensual. There was no struggle to find a rhythm. No one postured and strutted with their sexiest moves. John was just a rowboat on the waves, drifting and dipping with the motion and loving every minute of it.

His body felt awash with Sherlock, as if he covered every inch of John’s skin, and he tingled with it. His breath came fast. His blood roared in his ears. And although his insistent erection circled and skimmed against Sherlock’s lower abdomen, it wasn’t the growing pressure there that was his focus. He felt pleasure from his hair follicles to the soles of his feet, from the goosebumps buzzing like static over his neck and back to the dull ache in his quads and calves from working them in unexpected ways.

John didn’t know exactly how or when it happened, but somehow Sherlock ended up behind him. John’s thighs pressed against Sherlock’s from knees to groin, and Sherlock’s torso curled over John’s, his teeth resting lightly at the crux between John’s neck and shoulder. John pressed back, tilting his hips towards Sherlock’s and letting his head drop to his shoulder. His mouth fell slack, and his eyes drifted closed.

If other people were dancing, he wasn’t aware of it. He felt wrapped up, enveloped by Sherlock’s body, one hand over Sherlock’s on his his thigh and the other wrapped over the nape of Sherlock’s neck, one finger twining in the curl found there, reminding him of his library Lothario and sending a fresh surge of arousal down his spine. 

Sherlock’s fingers strayed dangerously close to John’s erection, and John bit his lip. God, he wanted it. He wanted to take Sherlock home and slowly strip him of every scrap of clothing. He wanted to lick every inch of his brilliant body. Sink his teeth into that long throat. Feel the silky skin of their cocks slide together. He wanted--

“Sorry to interrupt the fucking, but Clara has a paper due on Monday.”

John’s eyes flew open, his body stiffening like he had been hit with a bucket of ice water. Sherlock’s mouth popped free of John’s shoulder, the saliva growing quickly cold and sticky, and John felt Sherlock’s body straighten behind him, erection still pressed to the small of John’s back.

He couldn’t see the face Sherlock made, but if he had to go by the look on Harry’s, it wasn’t a pleasant one. She looked at John, her gaze flashing back one more time before she made eye contact with him.

“Come on, Johnny.”

Sherlock’s hands skimmed down John’s arms. “I fail to see how your girlfriend’s procrastination has anything to do with John.”

Harry raised her eyebrows. “I fail to see how it’s any of your concern.”

John held out his hand. “It’s all--”

“That’s not the real reason you’re leaving,” Sherlock said over the din.

“Oh?” Harry crossed her arms over her chest.

“No. You got too drunk, and it made your girlfriend uncomfortable. That’s why she’s not fetching John with you. She’s angry. Likely waiting by the front door.”

A guffaw barked unbidden from John’s throat. What Sherlock said was probably true, but the second the laugh escaped, John blanched, frowning and shaking his head. _Not good._

“You have some ner--”

“Am I wrong?”

Harry’s jaw flapped for a moment before she grabbed John’s wrist and yanked him away from Sherlock. Then, she turned on her heel and stormed off.

John turned back to Sherlock. “That was bloody amazing.”

Sherlock smirked. “I was right, then.”

“Probably. I’ll have to get back to you.”

“John!” Harry yelled in John’s ear, hauling him away.

“Jesus, Harry. Calm down.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”

“All right. Fine. Let’s go.”

Harry and John stopped at the coat check, Harry ripping her coat from the attendant, and John nodding to him with an extra tip in hand. Clara waited just where Sherlock thought she’d be, wrapped in her coat just inside the front door.

“Ready?” Harry asked, throwing her coat over her shoulders.

Clara nodded, and they left for the nearest tube station.

A few stops down the line, John grunted and thumped his fist against his thigh. “Fuck!”

“What the hell, Johnny?” Harry shouted.

“I forgot to get his bloody number.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to the diffuse light of the mid-morning sun through cheap curtains. His eyelids slowly creaked apart, blinking as the world came into squinty focus. Surprisingly, his head wasn’t pounding, nor did he want to vomit, but God his mucous membranes were dry.

Dragging a sandpaper tongue over his teeth, John wobbled to the tiny refrigerator and grabbed the only comestible inside--beer. He popped the pull tab and set it on his desk, stretching his neck as he sat in the chair across from it. The trapezius at his right side ached, and he wrapped his hand over it, pushing his fingers into the tight muscle and letting the weight of his arm slide them forward.

He winced as his fingers hit the very top of the muscle near his neck. That was no muscle ache. He poked at it, finding the deep ache of broken capillaries under his skin at the crook between neck and shoulder.

Though he didn’t have a mirror in the room, he crawled back into bed and grabbed his phone from the windowsill. He woke it up and turned on the camera, flipping it towards himself. Just as he thought, there were two arcs of mauve framing the very top of his shoulder. He prodded at them a bit more, lamenting that there wasn’t more of a story to go along with them. Oh, how he wished Harry hadn’t interrupted.

If Sherlock moved in bed in any way resembling the way he moved on the dancefloor, John would have been in for the ride of his life. At that thought, images from the night before flitted through John’s mind, and he closed his eyes, pressing his fingers more deeply into the bruised tissue. He remembered the way Sherlock’s clothed cock had felt pressed against his arse, the weight of his hand on John’s thigh, his mouth on John’s neck, his hair under John’s palm.

The ache in John’s neck spread down his chest, contracting his nipples and sending goosebumps down his abdomen. He dropped the phone between his legs, his fingertips tickling his upper thigh through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms.

God, what would have happened if Harry hadn’t been there? Would they have made it back here? Mike was off for the weekend visiting his family, and God knows what Sherlock’s living situation was, so they would have definitely come back here. He could hardly imagine that lithe body laid out on the bottom bunk, but his mind made a valiant effort.

He imagined grasping the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt, letting his knuckles graze against flanks as he pulled the shirt over Sherlock’s head, mussing the curls at his crown. He imagined Sherlock’s hands on his body, fingertips skating down his back, palms cupping his arse and pressing their groins together.

Both of John’s hands skimmed over the inside of his thighs, stroking up and down as his hips rose to meet them. God, those hands. John would bet they would be able to grasp one whole arse cheek in each palm. He could practically feel the fingertips pressing at the crease between arse and thigh. Maybe they’d slide inwards, probing between his thighs, sliding over his perineum.

John let his fingers drop between his legs, tickling the skin behind his testicles, and closed his eyes with a sigh. He palpated the bruise again with his free hand, walking his fingers over each arc. He imagined those same teeth nibbling at John’s lower lip, his Adam’s apple, grazing over a nipple. The flick of a tongue. Those pouty lips, red and kiss swollen, sliding down his abdomen. Perhaps he’d bite at John’s lower abdomen, trace the line of hair down from John’s navel with his tongue.

Oh, how John would love to get his fingers into those curls, especially while they were between his thighs. The silky hair under his palms and twining over the backs of his fingers as Sherlock sucked on him. John reached into his pyjamas and circled his thumb over his perineum, imagining it was Sherlock’s tongue.

They could have had such fun. What he wouldn’t give to run into Sherlock again, but for now fantasy would have to do. For now, he could imagine that his own spit-slick palm was Sherlock’s, that the fingers toying with his nipples were a tongue.

He bit his lip as he worked his length, his hips tilting with every downward stroke. The backs of his knuckles skimmed the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. His legs spread, and small grunts pushed from his throat despite his best efforts to keep quiet. These walls were thin, after all.

John wondered if Sherlock would care. If they lay on the bed, frotting against each other, hands and mouths roaming, would he moan and gasp, or would he be quiet as a mouse? Even with the thin walls and prying ears, John hoped Sherlock would be loud. Let everyone know what John could do to such a beautiful man. Let him leave the same marks on Sherlock so that no one would doubt it.

John panted, his hips rising off the bed as the spring in his groin coiled impossibly tighter, and he was barely able to get his clothes out of the way before he shuddered, his back hunching as semen pulsed onto his stomach and chest. He gentled himself through the aftershocks, and with a sigh, he collapsed to the bed, his limbs falling akimbo.

After wiping his hand on a clean bit of skin on his stomach, John stroked his bottom lip with his thumb. He stared at the curtains waving in the wind from the forced air unit. He had to see Sherlock again, but how? Perhaps he could go back to the club, but it wouldn’t be open again until Wednesday. And even then, there was no guarantee Sherlock would be there. Who knew how often he went out? He might have a different club he frequented. For all John knew, he could go back to that club every day for a month and still never encounter Sherlock.

On the other hand, how common could the name Sherlock really be? If John asked around, he might be able to track him down. And hopefully not seem like a stalker.

John trailed his fingers through the mess on his stomach, wondering if there would really be a way to find Sherlock without coming across as a creep. He was still pondering long after he showered, dressed, and went down to breakfast.

***

When Mike came home that evening, John figured, what the hell, so over a shared meal of bowls of instant ramen, he asked, “Do you know anyone named Sherlock?”

Mike winced, his eyebrows shooting up. “Yeah. Why?”

“I took Harry and Clara to a club last night and danced with a bloke there named Sherlock. Didn’t get his number, though.”

“You? Dancing?”

John grimaced. “Very funny. I was drunk, and he was sexy as fuck.”

Mike chuckled. “Probably not the Sherlock I know.”

John cocked his head. “Why not?”

“He doesn’t seem the type to go clubbing.”

John shoved noodles into his mouth, waiting not-so-patiently for Mike to elaborate. When he didn’t, John mumbled around his mouthful, “Well? What type does he seem? What’s he look like?”

“I don’t know. Nerdy, I guess. He’s in my anatomy class. Tall, skinny, pale. He wears thick hipster glasses. Keeps to himself.” Mike shrugged. “He corrects the professor all the time. Hell, he probably lives at the library.”

John chewed and cogitated. That certainly didn’t sound like the Casanova John met the night before. London was a big city, and maybe his Sherlock wasn’t at the university. Hell, for all he knew, Sherlock was a fake name for this bloke. But what were the odds?

“Do you think you could get a picture without him noticing?” John asked.

“You must be joking.”

John shook his head, scoffing at himself. “Right. That’s crazy.”

“Wow.” A smug grin spread on Mike’s face. “He really did a number on you.”

“Oh, piss off.”

***

As John pushed his cart down the aisle, a thumping techno beat in his ear, he pressed the fingers of his left hand to the base of his neck. The bruise left there by Sherlock’s teeth had nearly faded already, but the prodigious application of pressure could recall the ache, conjuring images and sensations from their dance and a dull, pleasant tension in his groin.

He was in the chemistry section again. Unfortunately, it was still a necessary part of his job, but instead of holding off until after his Lothario’s prescribed time or hoping to pawn the books off on the next shift, he came straight up. He just didn’t think he could take the temptation today. Besides, his previous strategy had proved ineffectual as his cart now had more chemistry volumes than ever.

John checked his watch. He should have a good two hours to shelve before nape curl showed up. Still, he started down the aisle where the liaisons took place. If nothing else, he was bound and determined not to be caught unawares again. And so he spent the next several minutes, one earbud in and one out, eyes darting up and down the aisle and between the shelves. He checked his watch far too often. Honestly, he was going to give himself a heart attack at this rate.

_Here lies John Watson, who suffered a cardiac arrest caused by overactive hormones and imagination._

Despite his profuse preparations, John jumped when he saw movement between the shelves. He was barely able to suppress a shout. It was mortifying.

He dropped the book that was in his hand back to the cart and shook his head at himself. Though he was too far back from the shelves to get a clear picture of what was happening, he thanked his lucky stars that it didn’t appear sexual. For one, whoever it was appeared to be alone, and the movements were much too far-reaching to indicate any solo action was going on.

John pushed the cart out of the way and stepped closer until he could get a good view through a gap. The first thing he spotted was the tiny twirl of hair at the nape, much closer than he expected, and his heart stuttered, trying to crawl straight out of his mouth. He swallowed, taking a slow, deep breath through his nose.

_Stop being so jumpy._

Nape curl pushed off the shelf, making it shudder and making John wince, his body springing backwards like a frog thrown into a hot pan. He shuffled back to the shelf, stooping to view at chest height.

Nape curl held a book against his chest, his middle three fingers cradling the spine. His index finger tapped rhythmically against the binding, and John could swear he felt an echo at the small of his back. His torso bobbed and slid in John’s view, ribs and hips circling in counterpoint, and his free hand slid across his abdomen. He moved just like…

John abandoned his cart, ripping the earbuds from his head and his phone, sending tinny music into the air. But he didn’t notice that. He was too busy marching around the corner, buoyed by excitement and arousal as well as a growing sense that this nape curl bloke had been fucking with him.

By the time he rounded the corner and saw Sherlock, the anger had won out. Just who the fuck did Sherlock think he was? Was he messing with John’s brain for fun? He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, with the way he treated all the other men John saw him with. Something to be toyed with and tossed aside. And Sherlock certainly wasn’t getting any sexual pleasure from it, so what was it about?

Through the F5 tornado of thought, John finally said, “It’s you.”

Sherlock looked up from his book, eyebrows raising as his gaze landed on John. Calm as you please, he closed the book, set it aside, and pulled the buds from his own ears, shutting off the music before pulling them out of his phone.

As he wound the cord around his hand, he said, “John. I was hoping I’d see you today. Are you sticking around for the show?”

“Just where do you get off?” John whispered, stalking towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. The corners of his mouth tightened and his bottom lip protruded for barely a microsecond before he pulled his chin up. “Well, I’d make a joke about the next row over, but I rather doubt that’s the answer you’re looking for.”

John stepped into Sherlock’s personal space, head cocking and the corner of his mouth twitching. “Is this funny to you?”

Sherlock’s back hit the shelves behind him, making a book topple to the ground. “I don’t follow.”

“Bullshit.”

John’s breath gusted from his nose like a bull’s about to trample. His chest pressed to Sherlock’s, pinning him in place, but Sherlock didn’t flinch. He searched John’s face, his gaze sweeping from John’s hairline to neck and then peering to each side at John’s hands clenched on cold metal, the tight muscles of his forearms, on down to his legs. It was palpable, and it left John torn, his hands itching either to punch or fondle.

With one more look at John’s face, realization dawned on Sherlock’s in the form of an O on his lips. “Oh, that? Don’t be an idiot. They have nothing to do with you.”

John scoffed, stepping back a hair but leaving Sherlock caged between his arms. “Don’t they?”

Sherlock shuffled upwards until his heels hit the base of the shelves, tugging his t-shirt back into proper order. “Of course not. They were an experiment.”

“Do they know that?”

If Sherlock’s eyes had rolled any farther, John would have thought he was about to speak in tongues. “For God’s sake. I am well aware of the ethical principles and best practices of psychological experimentation. Do you really think I would embark on such a study without obtaining informed consent? It’s hardly my fault if they didn’t like the parameters after the fact.”

John’s jaw dropped, and his brows furrowed. He stared at Sherlock’s haughty face for a long moment before saying, “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

John wrapped his right hand over his shoulder, pulling down on the tense muscle there. “So, you brought at least four men up here, gave them hand jobs, and shooed them away. For science?”

Sherlock’s gaze landed on the heel of John’s hand and the faded bite mark behind it. Fixated, he nodded, his top teeth peeking out as he bit his bottom lip. A wavering hand rose to replace John’s at his shoulder.

As Sherlock’s thumb traced the arc made by his top teeth on John’s shoulder, John gusted, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock’s thumb pressed harder to the marks, his breath quickening. “I’m testing response to sexual stimuli.”

John grunted at the pressure on his shoulder, and his hand fluttered towards Sherlock’s elbow before dropping to his side, his other hand still propped against a shelf. “Furtive sex in the stacks is exciting. You don’t need an experiment to tell you that.”

“It wasn’t particularly exciting for me.” Sherlock’s fingers slid over John’s shoulder, finding the matching teeth marks on the back. “Not until you came in.”

God that was an incredible thing to hear, and John’s knees went weak with it. But, what was it that the second bloke had said? _I heard you ran hot and cold, but I had no idea._

John stepped back until his back rested on the opposite shelf. He crossed his arms. “So, if I’m not your experiment, I guess that makes me a variable, hmm?”

“Oh no, John.” Sherlock crossed the aisle in one swift step. “You’re something exceptional.”

It was a mistake. John was sure of it. But God, those lips. Sherlock’s mouth was parted, the tip of his tongue pressed to his canine. His breath felt hot on John’s face. Though their bodies didn’t touch, Sherlock was so close that John’s skin fizzed with the presence of him. And the memory of Saturday night was so fresh and potent that John could feel the thumping bass in the balls of his feet.

Before his mind could catch up with his body, John’s fists were balled in Sherlock’s t-shirt, hauling his lips down to John’s. If John had tried to extrapolate the way Sherlock kissed from what he had seen in the stacks and felt on the shoulder, he may have come up with something similar, but he still wouldn’t have been prepared. Sherlock kissed like he was dying of thirst. His tongue was relentless, exploring every corner of John’s mouth as if it were the key to his survival. John fancied himself a great kisser, but he could barely keep up. He held onto Sherlock’s t-shirt for dear life, hearing the creak and pop of stressed seams.

He felt more than heard the thunk of Sherlock’s hands hitting the shelves behind them, and Sherlock closed in, pressing his thigh between John’s. Little sounds leaked from his mouth into John’s, whimpers and moans and the occasional grunt as his hips pressed forward. It was so unlike what John had witnessed before. Sherlock was usually so quiet, so in control, guiding the encounter with expert precision. But now… Now he seemed to be riding the tide of his own desires, circumstances be damned.

John’s lungs burned, and as he pulled back for breath, he panted, “What am I, then?”

His eyes closed, hands sliding down John’s flanks, Sherlock swallowed. “I don’t know, but I aim to find out.”

With that, Sherlock dove back in, his fingers gripped tight over John’s hips. John groaned, still desperate for breath, and tipped his head back until his crown bumped against a row of books. Once their lips broke, Sherlock’s mouth dipped to the teeth marks on John’s neck, biting down.

“Fuck,” John grunted. “Harder.”

With a similar grunt, Sherlock acquiesced, and John sank against Sherlock’s body, his groin pressing tight to Sherlock’s thigh. He ached for more pressure, for Sherlock to reach into his pants and grip him tight, let him thrust into the tunnel of Sherlock’s fingers.

But, when Sherlock reached for the button at the top of John’s jeans, John blanched, his stomach clenching.

“No,” he said, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock’s head popped up, his brows furrowed, his lips in a pout. His eyes searched John’s face.

“I don’t want to be another test subject.”

“That’s not”--Sherlock swallowed, shifting on his feet--”this isn’t--”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s frown. “Whoever you invited up here today? Stand him up.”

“Done.”

“And invite me back to your place.”

Sherlock watched his hands as they pushed back his cuticles. “My living situation is… complicated.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened, his jaw clenching. John opened his mouth to apologize, but Sherlock cut him off with, “All right. Let’s go.”

Stifling a laugh, John said, “I can’t go right now. I have a shift to finish.”

Sherlock’s eyelids narrowed. “Then when?”

“I get off at eight. I’ll come by right after.”

“Very well.” Sherlock stepped back. “The address is two-two-one B Baker Street.” He nodded. “Afternoon.”

Sherlock turned to go, but John laid his palm over Sherlock’s bicep. “All right?”

“Yes. I have some things to take care of before you arrive.”

“I can get rid of my roommate if you’d rather come back to mine.”

“No.” Staring off at nothing in particular, Sherlock smirked. “That won’t be necessary. My flat will work quite nicely after all.”

With that, Sherlock winked and hurried off. This whole thing just kept getting weirder and weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to MonikaKrasnorada for the beta (and the inspiration).


	4. Chapter 4

John’s cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street a little after six o’clock. After watching Sherlock’s date (for lack of a better term) show up and before storming off twenty minutes later, John was useless. If he thought he couldn’t concentrate when he had been trying to avoid the man who would be Sherlock, he should have seen himself that afternoon. On the outside, he may have looked like a zombie, but on the inside, his mind raced through dozens of scenarios. He imagined his hands roaming over every inch of Sherlock’s skin that he had seen, and he imagined revealing every inch he hadn’t.

The sounds Sherlock made replayed themselves in John’s mind, increasing in volume and intensity. What did he sound like when he wasn’t trying to stay quiet? When he was so deep in the throes that he couldn’t hold back his moans?

John groaned at the thought, startling more than a few patrons, and after a couple of hours of that, he’d had enough. He faked sick and grabbed the first cab he saw.

So now, here he was at the front door of a posh block of flats, pressing the buzzer for “B.” Apparently, Sherlock was even more out of John’s league than he thought. What was he in for?

Without a word from Sherlock, the speaker buzzed back, and John heard the click and thunk of the front lock disengaging. Clearing his throat, John pulled open the door and walked in.

The flat was on the first floor, and just as John raised his fist to knock, Sherlock opened the door.

“You’re early.”

John shuffled, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, no.” He pulled John through the door and slammed it behind them. “It’s perfect.”

The flat was impressive, if bare. An ornate area rug dominated the wood floor, a pristine stainless-steel kitchen to one end, but the only furniture in the room were a sofa, two chairs, and a small dining table towards the kitchen.

Sherlock pushed John’s jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor before dragging him into the sitting room. Pushing John down on the sofa, Sherlock climbed into his lap. In the barren space with the large windows, John felt exposed, on display, and he shivered.

As John’s hands roamed Sherlock’s thighs, he said, “You like to be watched, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth dipped to the teeth marks on John’s neck, making John fall back against the cushions. “Not especially,” he murmured against John’s skin.

“Liar,” John gasped, his head falling back, leaving his neck exposed and vulnerable. He groaned at the renewed ache, grabbing two handfuls of that luscious arse to press their groins together. “What’s that building next door?”

Sherlock glanced over. “Another block of flats.”

John’s hands tugged Sherlock’s t-shirt from the back of his jeans, slipping underneath as they slid up Sherlock’s back. “And here we are in front of all these windows with all the lights on. Tell me you don’t want to give them a show.”

Sherlock didn’t answer by way of words so much as by raising both hands straight above his head and cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh,” John huffed, pressing his palms up Sherlock’s side and arms, letting the shirt follow until it was free of Sherlock’s head. “You are a bad boy.”

John cradled Sherlock’s jaw in his hand, running his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. Fuck, he was gorgeous, and just as John opened his mouth to tell him so, Sherlock’s tongue darted out to lick the pad. He opened his mouth, dipping his head until John’s thumb slipped past his lips, until the base of his first knuckle rested on Sherlock’s bottom teeth. To John’s surprise, he didn’t close his lips around it, didn’t lick or swirl his tongue, but the look on his face-- God, the look on his face was enough to make John gasp.

He pressed the side of his index finger underneath Sherlock’s chin, pulling him down as John surged upwards. Their lips met in the middle, Sherlock nipping at John’s bottom lip, his hips rolling against John’s. He moaned into John’s mouth, no inkling of edifice or self control in it. He was giving himself over to the moment, over to John, and John felt heady with it. He felt awash in his body, powerful, and sexy as hell.

“Maybe,” John said between kisses, “we should open the windows, let everyone hear you.”

Sherlock gasped, dropping his head to John’s shoulder. “Oh, John. Yes. Show them how you make me feel. Make them see that I’m yours.”

John shuddered, the words making his cock throb within its confines, and he was sure Sherlock could feel it even through the thick layers of fabric between them. Wrapping his arms across Sherlock’s back, he surged upwards and to the side, flipping Sherlock onto his back and laying his head on the cushion at one end.

He had planned to get up, but the sight made him pause. Sherlock’s hair had frizzed, his perfectly coifed curls askew. His mouth was wet and swollen, his nipples erect. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s torso, unsure where he wanted to suck and nibble first. As his fingers found Sherlock’s waistband, he paused. If he didn’t stop now, he doubted he’d be able to.

 

“I’ll be right back,” John said, darting across the room.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock whined, arching his back.

John grinned, throwing open the first window.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, and when John glanced back, he found Sherlock’s hand roaming his own chest, toying with his nipples before running his fingertips over the space between his navel and his jeans.

John paused, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “Do you have any idea how you look?”

Sherlock chuckled, slipping his fingers underneath his waistband. “I have some idea.”

John growled low in his throat, making quick work of the remaining windows. As he crossed the room to the sofa, he whipped off his shirt and kicked his shoes aside. As John climbed on, Sherlock’s legs fell open, his back arching towards John, his hands gripping John’s hips, pulling John hard against him.

John grunted. Even as their naked torsos slid together, even as Sherlock’s hands roamed John’s arse, dipping into his pants for a hearty squeeze, John was overcome with the urge to strip every scrap of clothing from the both of them. But that would require splitting apart, and John didn’t think he could rip himself away.

So, he pressed himself tighter to Sherlock’s body, sliding up his torso until his face hovered above Sherlock’s, and then he dove, dipping his tongue into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groaned, the sound rumbling against John’s chest, and John echoed. He could feel it through his entire body, spurring him on.

He worried Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking hard until Sherlock arched against him, the low groan rising to a fever pitch.

“That’s it,” John muttered, falling to Sherlock’s neck, pressing his teeth to the same spot where he’d been marked. “Make them hear you.”

“John,” Sherlock cried, pushing at the waist of John’s jeans, his arse lifting from the sofa cushions, heels slipping underneath him.

John shuddered. “Fuck, yes. Let them know who you’re fucking.”

He slid down Sherlock’s torso, leaving his jeans out of Sherlock’s reach, and Sherlock whined. That was, until John’s lips sealed over an areola, flicking the erect flesh with his tongue. His hands dropped to Sherlock’s trousers, fumbling with the button and zip until finally they were loose enough to push down Sherlock’s hips.

John licked his lips, sitting back on his heels as he eased trousers and pants down to Sherlock’s thighs, watched his cock spring free, hard and flushed. A bead of precome welled before his eyes, and he stooped to gather it on his tongue.

Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, John closed his eyes and hummed. “Delicious.”

The heavy rush of breath from Sherlock didn’t engage his vocal cords, but it was loud and obscene in John’s ears. He’d be replaying it for weeks. He had to hear it again.

He had planned to get Sherlock completely naked, tease him a bit, feel the bare skin of his calves and thighs, but that little taste just left him hungry for more. Framing Sherlock’s hips with his palms, John dipped again, licking along the slit to gather any of the salty fluid that he had missed.

His gaze flitted to Sherlock’s face, which looked absolutely wrecked already. God, what a wonder. The times he had seen Sherlock before, he was in such control, and yet a few kisses (excellent kisses, true) and the promise of a blow job had left him a mess. It couldn’t be the semi-public nature of it. He’d done that plenty of times before. So, John could only assume it was him, and wasn’t that incredible.

John had never felt sexier or more desirable in his life. True, he didn’t particularly enjoy meaningless sex, but if he and Sherlock were to only have this one evening together, he’d thank his lucky stars for it. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do whatever he could to assure a repeat performance. Damn him if he wasn’t going to leave Sherlock wanting more. He didn’t care how many more partners Sherlock would have; John was going to be sure to stick in his mind forever.

John swirled his tongue over Sherlock’s glans, wriggling his tongue along the edge of the foreskin until he could wrap his lips over the exposed head.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, his hands gripping John’s shoulders, urging him forwards, but John didn’t allow Sherlock’s cock further ingress. He held Sherlock’s hips still, his tongue laving over the slit, flicking against Sherlock’s frenulum. He laid the flat of his tongue against it, sliding it up and down, letting it slip out from the seal of his lips.

_Go on_ , he thought, sliding down a bit more, enveloping Sherlock’s cock in the wet heat of his mouth. _Talk to me._

But Sherlock simply huffed with each minute movement of John’s mouth, little whines escaping in rhythm with John’s tongue. Even as John sank down, Sherlock’s glans tickling John’s soft palate, John’s thumbs digging into the hollows by Sherlock’s hipbones, he got only a keening whine held back behind lips pressed tight together.

“What’s the matter?” John asked as his mouth slid off Sherlock’s cock. “Gone shy?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead sliding down Sherlock’s cock until he could bury his nose in pubic hair. And Sherlock moaned, the sound rising in volume and pitch as John refused to let Sherlock’s hips rise from the cushions.

“John, please,” he whined, his back arching, his hands scrabbling against John’s back.

John slid off again, loosely wrapping a hand over Sherlock’s cock as he asked, “Please what?”

Sherlock’s hands flew to the waistband of his own pants, and he wiggled his way up the sofa, pulling his legs to his chest until he could push pants and trousers off his feet. Tossing them aside, he surged to sitting, bracketing John’s knees with his feet. His eyes were wide, manic, his pupils so dilated that they appeared almost black. It might be cliche to refer to eyes as pools, but as Sherlock’s fingers fumbled with John’s flies, John found himself swaying forward, feeling like he might fall into them and drown. If they weren’t pools, then they were lakes, glassy on a still winter night.

Finally freeing the button and ripping open the zip, Sherlock growled, “Everything.”

He pushed John back, yanking at his jeans and pants in a fit of impatience, and John barely had time to get out a grunt--let alone properly respond--before Sherlock was up on his feet, ripping the offending fabric from John’s legs and flinging it across the room. He crawled back onto the couch so that their positions were switched, slotting in between John’s bare legs and pinning John with his weight.

John’s breath left him in a gust, arousal pulsing through him in wave after wave as his body took stock of all the new sensations. The hair on Sherlock’s thighs caught against John’s, tickling between his legs as Sherlock thrust against him, his cock sliding against the crook between John’s groin and thigh. He could feel quivering abdominal muscles against his own cock, and Sherlock’s bollocks settled against his with each forward push.

John spread his legs as wide as he could in the limited space, his fingers digging into the muscles of Sherlock’s arse. “God, yes.”

His eyes falling closed, John’s mouth searched for Sherlock’s, sliding home with a long drag against Sherlock’s stubble, making John’s lips tingle. He wanted to cry out, tell Sherlock how absolutely fucking sexy he was, how good he felt, how much John wanted him. But every attempt was swallowed up by Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue caressing the words away from John’s. Every adoration came out only as a groan or a whimper, his body arching and thrusting against Sherlock’s.

And God, if they kept going like that, it would be over far too soon, and they’d make an absolute mess of what was no doubt an incredibly expensive sofa. But John couldn’t bring himself to stop, not when Sherlock was matching him stroke for stroke, sound for sound, digging his fingers into John’s hips. He wouldn’t have stopped if the building had been coming down around them. If this was where he died, he would go out a happy man.

With a gasping breath, Sherlock broke off their kiss, throwing his head back, and panting, he said, “I want you to fuck me.”

John’s breath hitched, his hips canting against Sherlock’s, and he groaned, rolling his hips against Sherlock’s groin in hedonistic glory. “Anything you want.”

A low scraping sound came from the doorway, and Sherlock shot up, nearly knocking John off the couch. He scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the door.

He grabbed John’s elbow, hauling him up. “Best go to my room now.”

He dragged John down a short hallway and through a door, slamming it behind them just as John heard the front door open. John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock pressed his palm to it, pushing John back against the door with his body. John could feel Sherlock’s racing heartbeat in the tight press of their chests, but more importantly, he could feel it where Sherlock’s cock was trapped between their stomachs.

Stifling a moan, John listened to the even click of footsteps as they moved around the living space, pausing three times before growing louder. Though Sherlock tried to keep his hand over John’s mouth, John ripped it away.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” he whispered. “Who’s out there?”

A rapping right by John’s head made him flinch.

“Sherlock,” came a voice from behind the door. “Care to explain why all the windows are open in the middle of October? Or the clothes that don’t belong to you?”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted.

Silence came from the other side of the door. Not even a rustling of cloth. Sherlock pressed his index finger to the center of his lips, a wicked smile spreading.

After a long moment where John’s lungs screamed from the effort to breathe quietly, ostensibly-Mycroft said, calm-as-you-please, through the door, “What are you doing in there?”

It sounded dangerous.

“Wait,” John whispered, his eyes going wide. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Sherlock shook his head before calling back to Mycroft, “John.”

John burst into laughter.

Mycroft’s sigh was loud even through the door. “Whatever money or drugs he’s given you, return them. I want him out of this flat in five minutes.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and left John little time to react before pushing him aside and throwing open the door. “Not _a_ John, Mycroft. His name is John.”

John peered through the gap at the hinges between the door and the frame.

Mycroft’s expression was sour. “If you think your attempt to shock me with your nudity will dissuade me, you are mistaken.”

John cocked his head the other way to get a look at Sherlock’s face, which held a similar expression.

“As you so often conveniently forget,” Sherlock rebutted, “this is my home as well.”

“If you’d like to take him through the process to get the proper clearances, then he is welcome here any time.”

_What the fuck?_

Sherlock paused, his fingers drumming against the doorknob, the clench in his jaw making his lower lip protrude. “Fine. If you’ll just let me pass, I’ll fetch the clothes. We wouldn’t want our guest to leave here in the nude, would we?”

As John peered through the gap in the door again, Mycroft stepped back, sweeping his arm across his body in a dramatic gesture of invitation. “Be my guest.”

Sherlock marched from the room, leaving the door open behind him. John kept watching Mycroft, who adjusted his tie and tugged his waistcoat into perfect order.

His gaze unwavering from the end of the hall towards the sitting room, Mycroft said, “Stop staring.”

John turned away, staring instead at the wedge of light coming in from the hall. He tried to parse what had just happened, to no avail. If Mycroft wasn’t Sherlock’s boyfriend, then who was he? Certainly more that just a flatmate. And why would John need clearance to be here? Was Mycroft some sort of personal security?

Dear God, what had John gotten himself into?

John stifled a gasp as Mycroft’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, and in a moment of hysteria, the thought flitted through John’s mind that it had an odd resemblance to Alfred Hitchcock’s. What horrors was he in for now?

“If you hurt him,” said Mycroft’s shadow, “they’ll never find the body.”

John’s eyes went wide, his throat going dry. In any other circumstance, he would take it as an idle threat. He heard it enough from over-protective friends and parents. But from this man, he believed every word.

Thankfully, Sherlock chose the next moment to stride past Mycroft, arms full of clothing, and slam the door behind him. He tossed John half the bundle and threw the rest on his bed.

As he threw his t-shirt over his head, Sherlock asked, “What did he say to you?”

John turned and turned his pants over in his hands, trying to get them facing the right way to put on. “He threatened to kill me.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad.”

John finally got his pants on the right way. “Not so bad? You must be joking. What were you expecting him to say?”

“That’s not important right now. Get dressed. Is your place acceptable, or do we need to get a hotel room?” He paused with his jeans on only one leg, tapping his chin. “I may be able to filch Mycroft’s credit card on the way out.”

“No.” John held out his hand in a low halt. “No filching, though I suppose jail is better than murder. My place is fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock threw a rather ridiculous coat over his shoulders (sure, it was chilly out, but he hardly needed a greatcoat like that), his eyebrows raising as a grin spread on his face. “Let’s go.”

Somehow, John managed to get his shoes and jacket on as he chased after Sherlock, ducking out of the flat behind him just before the door slammed in his face.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

As soon as they were on the pavement, Sherlock hailed a cab, seemingly from nowhere, bundling John into it. He crawled in after, and John had barely a nanosecond to react. If he hadn’t moved, he was sure that Sherlock would have sat in his lap.

Maybe he should have stayed still.

John shook the thought from his head. If he let himself go down that line of thought, they might not make it to student housing. He slid into the seat behind the driver, shuffling back until he got comfortable, which took a bit considering his erection hadn’t completely gone away. Every shift of cotton against skin left him painfully aware of what he left and where he was going.

“Well?” asked the cabbie.

John stared through the partition, his brows furrowing. _Well what?_

Sherlock jabbed him in the knee, and when John opened his mouth to protest, realization dawned.

He gave the cabbie his address.

He stared straight ahead, resolute to not think about the man to his left. And certainly not to look at him. He wasn’t going to think about smooth, pale skin all buttoned up in a giant coat. He wasn’t going to think about the slide of his cock against Sherlock’s stomach or the taste of Sherlock still on his tongue.

John glanced to his left without turning his head, catching a mere silhouette of Sherlock, his legs spread wide, a knee only a few centimetres away. Dragging his tongue over his lower lip, John lifted his hand and let it land just above Sherlock’s knee. The leg shifted under his hand, making John’s fingers settle against Sherlock’s inside thigh. He followed the inseam with the tip of his index finger, hooked a fingernail into it and felt the morse-code texture of the threads bump his finger.

A shuddering breath escaping his lungs, John traced Sherlock’s patella with his thumb, watching its movements from the corner of his eye. Sherlock’s legs were restless, his knees swaying so much that John furrowed his brows, watching them. Unfortunately, that meant that his gaze was drawn to the way Sherlock’s arse was wriggling against the seat and just what that did to his groin.

Biting his lip, John hazarded a glance at Sherlock’s face. Some part of his brain screamed at him that looking was a bad move. Hell, everything since his hand lifted off his own lap was a mistake. He was in a cab for God’s sake. This was not the place. There had to be a law.

But, John’s gaze got caught in Sherlock’s, intense and needy and dangerous. His breath caught, his right hand clenching and releasing against his thigh. And then, his gaze never leaving Sherlock’s, his hand slid up Sherlock’s inside thigh.

With a small glance and a nod, Sherlock shifted down in his seat, the knee closest to John pressed tight to the seat. God, how was he so flexible?

John’s palm settled against Sherlock’s groin, just pressing until he felt the pulse of Sherlock’s cock twitching underneath it. He heard a gust of breath rush from Sherlock’s nose and held back an utterance of his own. He dragged his nails against the grain of the fabric, making vibrations buzz through his fingertips, and Sherlock’s hips cocked, tilting askew towards John’s hand.

Christ.

His hand finding the outline of Sherlock’s cock, John again hazarded a glance at Sherlock’s face. Even as his hand slid up and down, even as Sherlock’s hips circled against it, even as Sherlock’s cock pulsed and throbbed, his face remained nearly impassive. He propped his chin on his knuckles and peered out the window, and from the chest up, the rapid gusts of breath were the only evidence that there was more going on underneath.

There was that iron control again, and while John wondered at it, he hated it. It was an affront. He wanted to tear down the facade, make him moan, whimper, beg. Tease him until he pleaded with John to let him come right there in the back of a cab.

John pressed harder against the crux of Sherlock’s inseams, pushing his palm down Sherlock’s length until his fingers could reach underneath, squeezing what he could reach of Sherlock’s arse, the heel of his hand nudging Sherlock’s perineum. When nothing happened but a cant of hips and a sharp exhale, John did it again, slowly, starting from the very top. If he hadn’t been listening for it, he may not have heard, but a small grunt forced its way from Sherlock’s throat, making his body hunch ever so slightly in on itself.

Sherlock’s knuckles flew from his chin to his mouth, the backs of his fingers pressed tight to his lips. Even through the veil of Sherlock’s fingers, John could see the jaw clench, the lips pressed together so hard that the edges turned white.

Shuffling closer, John leaned over to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Careful not to hurt that pretty mouth. That’s my job.”

Behind the fingers pressed to it, Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, letting out an utterance barely louder than murmur. “Oh.”

His hand dropped, settling over John’s as Sherlock turned his head, his mouth searching for John’s. They found each other, John licking along Sherlock’s lower lip before taking it between his teeth, tugging and worrying the skin. And finally--finally--Sherlock moaned, his palm pressing against the back of John’s hand as his groin thrust up against it.

John let his hand be used, putting all of his focus into the kiss, into the way Sherlock’s mouth opened for him. His tongue swept over John’s top lip, and it seemed as though his entire being was trying to crawl into John. Or perhaps merely on top of him. Soft, high-pitched moans escaped with every thrust that pressed Sherlock’s cock into John’s palm, slid his body closer, his hip digging into John’s thigh.

Oh God, if he only rotated his body a bit and shuffled over, he would be in John’s lap. His fingers flexed and curled under Sherlock's hand, resisting the urge to reach around Sherlock's body and pull him over. Seat that luscious arse on John’s cock. Get himself nestled nice and snug between those cheeks.

Instead, he sank his teeth into Sherlock's neck, sucking what he hoped would be a bright red mark limned by arced indentations. Sherlock arched off the seat, what would have been a truly glorious moan stifled with his fist. John let go of Sherlock’s neck, reaching towards Sherlock's fist with his free hand, but instead his hand flew forward, catching himself on the partition, his toes digging uselessly into the cab’s floor as the tires screeched underneath them. Sherlock's own hands flew to the glass in front of them, leaving two distinct prints and luckily leaving his face and knuckles free from injury, as John’s left arm flew across his waist.

“Shit,” muttered the cabbie. She waved at some unknown point on the windscreen. “Sorry. Um”--she cleared her throat--”sorry. I’ll just…”

She pointed straight ahead, and the car lurched into motion.

Sherlock’s fingers curled loosely over a ridge in the partition as he blinked at his hand prints. His body had gone still, even slumping a bit so that the outside of John’s thigh was being pinched between Sherlock’s bony hip and the seat. John shuffled away a bit, sighing as his leg came free, and Sherlock’s arse landed square on the cushion, the rocking of his body amplified by the motion of the cab.

Though he tried his best to stifle it, a wheezy guffaw burst through John’s clenched jaw. He looked out the window, shoulders heaving in barely contained laughter, and when he looked back, Sherlock was staring, eyes wide and mouth slack.

“Sorry,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s knee. “It’s just--”

Another fit of laughs squeaked from his lungs, but this time, he heard a low chuckle rumble over from the other side of the cab. John squeezed Sherlock’s knee again, leaning closer to him.

“You”--John pointed at Sherlock--”are a bad influence on me.”

Sherlock smirked. “Good.”

Curling his fingers over Sherlock’s nape, John pulled him down into a kiss. Giggles bubbled up only to be smothered in each other’s lips, gathered up with their tongues.

It was easy to forget where they were until, more smoothly this time, the cab came to a stop, and the cabbie put the car in park. “Here we are.”

Sherlock swept out of the cab and pulled on a pair of gloves, his gaze flitting around for a moment before he strode for John’s building. Pausing as he pulled his wallet from his pocket, John watched Sherlock walk away. _How did he know where--_

He shook the thought away long enough to pay the cabbie, who had turned more shades of red than John could count. He zipped his jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets, and followed. As John did his best not to hobble, he watched Sherlock’s quickly retreating form, marveling how he managed to walk like that when he was hard as a steel rod not thirty seconds before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to MonikaKrasnorada for the beta. And thank you all for the lovely comments.


	6. Chapter 6

If there had been fewer people in the halls, John would have started stripping the second they got to his floor. It was bad enough that someone had to be in the lift with them. And yes, perhaps Sherlock had his hand on John’s arse the whole ride up. Perhaps his fingers swirled and squeezed, and perhaps John wished his jacket were just a little bit longer.

The coat that had seemed so ridiculous when they left Sherlock’s flat was beginning to seem downright practical. Sherlock didn’t have to hunch to hide his raging erection from all the people who apparently decided it was time to have dinner right this second. In fact, he pranced around like a peacock, deftly maneuvering through the traffic with his head held high, as if the other people didn’t even exist.

If Sherlock’s coat hadn’t been buttoned from tip to tail, John might have thought Sherlock had his tented trousers proudly on display. Given his penchant for public sex, it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. Oh God, what if he was actually doing that? He did seem to be turning heads. But then, _look at him_. His mussed curls and swollen lips and bitten neck screamed sex all on their own. Not to mention that he was simply bloody gorgeous. He probably turned heads like that all the time.

John trotted to catch up, laying his fingers over the small of Sherlock’s back and sneaking a peek at his front, which was thankfully still buttoned up. He stood a little taller, though he stepped close enough that the sweep of Sherlock’s coat might hide anything obscene. _That’s right,_ he thought. _He’s mine. Even the straight ones are probably jealous._

As tempting as it was to show off Sherlock--and as much as Sherlock seemed to enjoy being shown off--John’s door was far more tempting. As they approached John’s room, John hooked his fingers into the belt at the back of Sherlock’s coat, tugging him to the side, and with an elegant sidestep, Sherlock followed. Nothing more than the shifting of a few tumblers stood between them and bliss. 

John’s hand shook with his first attempt at the lock. It didn’t help that Sherlock had crowded close behind him. His still-impressive-even-through-thick-wool erection pressed against the crest of John’s arse as Sherlock’s hands rested on either side of the doorframe. God, how he wanted to rock back against Sherlock, pull one of those hands down, guide it to his waist, tuck it into the front of his jeans. He wanted to feel those leather gloves on his bare skin.

For a moment, it seemed that Sherlock had read John’s mind. His hand slid down the frame and came to rest on John’s hip.

But, instead of reaching farther to touch John’s skin, Sherlock’s fingers dug into denim, his body pressing against John’s back, his breathy voice pleading, “Hurry.”

The scrape of the key in the lock sounded deafening to John’s ears, and he was surprised when the general din behind him continued uninterrupted. As soon as John had turned the key and pulled it from the lock, Sherlock’s gloved hand flew out to push the door open, the other at John’s hip steering him inside with a rough shove. Under any other circumstance, John might have told Sherlock to toss off. But he would have done the same thing. In fact, before the door had even closed behind them, John stripped his shirt and jacket over his head in one fell swoop, tossing them aside and kicking off his shoes as his hands went to work on his jeans.

John spun to find Sherlock propped against the door, still buttoned up in his coat. A growl rending its way from John’s throat, he crossed the room, jeans half undone, to scramble at Sherlock’s buttons.

“Oh God, John,” Sherlock huffed, his head thudding against the door, his body arching against John’s hands as they made their way down the row of buttons.

“God, you’re so,” John said, peeling Sherlock’s coat from his shoulders, revealing the full spectrum of John’s handiwork on Sherlock’s neck. His voice left him, the rest of his sentence eking out as a dry rasp. It hadn’t bruised yet, but it would. The skin was flushed, the indentations of John’s teeth still imprinted like braille on Sherlock’s skin.

He watched the skin shift as his fists balled in Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it over his head, and on their way down, John’s hands settled on Sherlock’s neck, fingers tracing his marks.

Sherlock shivered, his head dropping back. “Do it again. Mark me. I want people to know.”

John groaned and slid his fingertips over the alabaster flesh of the unmarked side of Sherlock’s neck. He curled his fingers over Sherlock’s nape, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point, relishing the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat thrumming underneath. God, it didn’t matter how many times he’d seen the evidence of it--it could go on for days, weeks, months--John could not get over the fact that this man found him so exciting. He felt drunk with the knowledge, his tongue restless over his lips as he pondered the next place to mark Sherlock.

Sherlock sank against John’s touch, his back sliding against the door as he groaned, “What are you waiting for? Bite me.”

Sherlock’s head dropped to one side, offering up a tempting slice of flesh, and John dove, pressing his teeth to the tender skin until Sherlock whined, his fingers digging into John’s shoulders, his groin thrusting against John’s belly. The denim teased at the tiny sliver of skin revealed from behind John’s unbuttoned fly, and he closed miniscule gap left between them. Sherlock’s body was trapped against the door, John’s body weight pinning him in place, but still he urged John closer. His nails scraped at John’s back and shoulders. His leg wrapped over John’s calf, slotting him between Sherlock’s legs.

John writhed against Sherlock as his tongue explored the skin between his teeth, as he let his tongue slip over his bottom teeth to trace the marks left by them. He thought about how Sherlock’s neck would look the next day, all those beautiful shades of purple announcing John’s presence. People would notice. They would wonder. Whom had this Adonis allowed to mark him? If John could, he would have written his name on Sherlock, eradicated all doubt of who ruined all that beautiful skin. Been begged for it.

John groaned against Sherlock’s neck, tearing himself away enough to tug at Sherlock’s waistband and say, “Lose these.”

Sherlock’s hands were at his waist before John could put any space between them, tugging at the button and tearing open the zip.

He smirked. “Happily.”

Reluctantly, John stepped back, pulling down his own trousers and pants and kicking them aside. He paused for a moment, contemplating the lube and condoms in his desk drawer, but damn. Sherlock’s naked body was too gorgeous, too tempting, too… close by. As soon as Sherlock’s feet were free of his trousers, John grabbed Sherlock’s hips, sliding his thigh between Sherlock’s legs.

As his thumbs circled the dips just inside Sherlock’s hipbones, John said, “Look at you.”

Sherlock’s back arched, the crown of his head pressing against the door as he ground himself against John’s thigh. “What do you see?”

“Fuck.” John reached back, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s arse, his hips thrusting, arms pulling. The friction of Sherlock’s thigh against his cock was exquisite, just this side of too rough, but that was fine. He didn’t want to come too soon. He wanted to see Sherlock come undone first. See him lost in his own orgasm. Watch the world around him disappear until all he saw was John.

This time, John missed the scrape of a key in the door’s lock, probably because he forgot to engage it in the first place. So, the first clue that someone was on the other side was Sherlock’s body surging against him in a decidedly non-Sherlockian way. It was clumsy and sudden, and the look on Sherlock’s face made it absolutely clear that no part of it was purposeful.

“Jesus Christ,” John said. “Can’t we catch a fucking break?”

“Everything all right?” came Mike’s voice from the other side of the door.

“I have company.”

“Oh.” Mike let the door fall closed. “Is it the bloke from the club?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock chuckled in his ear. “Yes.”

“All right. Have fun.”

John breathed a sigh of relief, but barely had half his breath escaped before Sherlock called through the door, “Mike Stamford?”

After a pause, Mike said, “Yes.”

“I’m going to miss today’s lab. Cover for me, will you?”

There was another, longer pause before Mike answered, “Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

Silence answered him. Seemingly satisfied, Sherlock bent to John’s mouth, capturing John’s bottom lip between his teeth. John sealed his lips to Sherlock’s, following the line of his upper lip with his tongue, but the silence quickly became too distracting.

“Mike?” John called through the door.

“Yeah.”

“All right?”

“Yes. I’ll just--” He cleared his throat. “Bye.”

John stared at the door for a moment, but clearly there were more pressing matters than the possible bewilderment of his roommate. He chuckled. “I guess you were the Sherlock in his anatomy class.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Obviously.”

“Well, lucky we were leaning on the door, or he may have gotten an unexpected lesson.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That joke is terrible, John.”

John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s sides, following a vee down his back. “Latissimus dorsi. Sacrum. Iliac crest. Intergluteal cleft.”

Sherlock smirked, though it broke as John’s fingers probed between his cheeks. “Oh, John. Talk dirty to me.”

“I want to eat you out until you scream.”

Sherlock’s head thunked against the door, his jaw dropping around a barely audible, “Oh.”

John pressed Sherlock’s cheeks apart with his palms, teasing up and down between them with his fingertips. His own cock throbbed at the promise of what his fingers explored, at Sherlock’s wanton reaction to John’s own promise. He thrust involuntarily against Sherlock’s thigh, his hips stuttering to a stop as his fingers clenched around supple flesh. Dropping his head to Sherlock’s chest, he whined, his hips circling despite his best efforts.

God, he was so keyed up. All this stopping and starting had done a number on him, and he just didn’t know how much more he could take. There was so much he wanted, so many places he wanted to touch and taste on Sherlock’s body, but he just didn’t think his body would cooperate. He ached for mindless ecstasy. He wanted to rut against Sherlock until their bellies were sticky with come. They didn’t even have to leave the doorway. They could do it right here. All he had to do was let go.

Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s hips, pulling them against him, his own hips rising to meet John. John could feel Sherlock’s cock leave wet trails against the hollow of his hip.

“Oh, fuck,” John muttered, rolling his hips, his fingers pulsing around Sherlock’s arse cheeks. “I’m so-- I’m so, cl-- Ah!”

John’s feet clenched, forcing him up on his toes even as his knees bent. Sherlock’s thumb and forefinger were wrapped around the base of his scrotum, pulling down in a constant, unforgiving way. Pain wasn’t exactly the descriptor John would have put on the sensation, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant.

As his fingers dug into the muscles of Sherlock’s arse, John’s brows furrowed, his lips pursing until he was able to force out, “What the hell?”

His fingers still gripping John, Sherlock shrugged his opposite shoulder. “You were about to come.”

John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s shoulders, his body torn between pushing towards or pulling away. “And?”

“And I’m not done with you.” With that and a bonus smirk, Sherlock released John, his fingertips gently tracing the shape of John’s testicles. “Shall I kiss it better?”

“Oh God, yes,” John said, his hands trailing behind Sherlock’s shoulders as they dropped in front of him. Sherlock kept dropping, leaving John’s arms hanging useless at his side until he felt the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth envelop his bollocks, his tongue swirling over one testicle.

“Jesus,” he hissed, fingers tangling into the curls at Sherlock’s crown. He ran his fingers through again and again as Sherlock’s mouth worked him over. He could feel his cock bob, pressing and lifting from Sherlock’s face, dripping precome over the back of John’s hand and probably into Sherlock’s hair.

_Oh, fuck yes._

He looked down, watching his own fingers wend their way through wild curls, his cock lying across Sherlock’s flushed cheek, Sherlock’s hooded eyes staring up at him, his hand pressed flat against John’s thighs.

“Look at you.” John traced his fingertip over Sherlock’s cheek and on down through the saliva gathered on his mouth and chin. “You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and his answering moan rumbled through John’s groin, making him shudder.

“God, you’re brilliant.”

With that, Sherlock released John with a slurp, the tip of his tongue tracing the underside of John’s cock all the way to the tip, where it flicked off a bead of precome. “You were saying something about eating me out? It just so happens I prepared for such an occasion.”

“Yeah,” John said, pushing back Sherlock’s curls, which had grown damp with perspiration--and precome, as John’s mind helpfully supplied. “God, yeah. Bottom bunk.”

John stepped back and to the side, hobbling after as Sherlock darted for John’s bed, throwing himself onto his stomach. He lay his head sideways on John’s pillow, watching John’s progress through hooded eyelids, his lips bitten hard between his teeth.

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your cock is?”

John chuckled as he settled behind Sherlock, easing his hips up and forward. “That’s not the adjective most people use.”

Sherlock gasped as John’s thumbs slid down his cleft, parting his cheeks. “Most people are idiots.”

John cocked his head with a shrug of his shoulders even as the pads of his thumbs dipped down to Sherlock’s perineum. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make them inaccurate.”

“The size of your penis is hardly--oh--hardly the most interesting thing about it.”

John licked another long stripe up the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. He tasted primarily of soap. Soap and the arousal that had been simmering for them both for far too long. “Oh? Do tell.”

“It’s--” Sherlock started but quickly abandoned in favor of turning his face to the pillow, keening into it and pressing back against John’s face as John swiped his tongue from scrotum to coccyx again and again. His hips rocked between the brackets of John’s hands, keeping rhythm with John’s tongue. His hands gripped the supports at either side of his head, throwing the muscles of his arms into sharp relief, and the muscles of his back glided under his skin. It was mesmerizing.

Though John’s cock still hung heavy and full between his legs, throbbing with every shift of Sherlock’s body, he was torn. This teasing would never get Sherlock ready for John’s cock, but God, the way he moved. If a few swipes of the tongue got him moving like that, what would he look like once John was inside of him? Or would he go still, let himself be used for John’s pleasure?

No, that didn’t seem like Sherlock. He would keen and writhe and thrust, push back everything John gave him and more, and at that thought, John swirled his tongue over Sherlock’s hole, relishing the flutter of the muscles against his tongue. He hummed against the skin, sweeping his tongue up from Sherlock’s perineum before pressing, circling, urging Sherlock’s body to let him in.

And Sherlock mewled, his hips tipping back, his thighs straining with the effort to press closer. God, what a wonder. Sherlock was either an incredible actor, or he had completely given himself over to the experience. John saw no posturing, no effort to put on a show to shore up John’s confidence as a lover or demonstrate Sherlock’s own prowess. No, this was Sherlock seeking his own pleasure from John’s mouth, letting his body lead the way.

“Shit,” John said, earning himself a growl from his companion. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

With a huff, Sherlock thumped the heel of his hand against the bed and turned his face from the pillow. “That’s all well and good, but why the fuck did you stop?”

“Sorry.” But instead of resuming, John got caught up in the sight of Sherlock’s arse, his entrance flushed and fluttering and so God-damned inviting. He licked his thumb, circling the pad over Sherlock’s anus, and with just a bit of pressure, it slid in, teasing at the sphincter.

Sherlock’s hips thrust forward, pulling against John’s grip, and his back hunched. As if the motion of his body forced it from his lungs, he grunted.

John’s hands flew from Sherlock’s arse as if it were a hot iron. “Bad?”

“No. Good.” Sherlock wriggled his hips, pressing his chest to the bed and arching his back so that his arse was high in the air. He spread his legs, his arse presented like an offering at a Bacchanalia that John was very glad to be invited to. A feast for the entire body.

From this angle, every bit of Sherlock’s genitalia was on display, his balls hanging full and heavy, his slender cock flushed a dusky rose. As John watched, a drip of precome dropped to the duvet, and he licked his lips.

“Do it again,” Sherlock said with another wiggle of his hips, and John groaned.

“Lu--,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “We need lube.”

John shifted his weight, moving one foot to the floor, but the view was too good.

“Just one thing.” John dipped his head, pressing against the top side of Sherlock’s cock with his palm until he could reach the tip with his tongue, lapping at the salty fluid at the tip before drawing a wet line up the center of his corpus.

“Jesus,” Sherlock gusted as John tore himself away long enough to fetch the lube and box of condoms from his desk drawer. He tossed the box on the windowsill next to the bed as he settled behind Sherlock, running his left hand over Sherlock’s arse and down his thigh as he flipped the cap of the lube with his right.

John turned the bottle upside down, watching as a drop formed at the opening and dropped to Sherlock’s coccyx, making Sherlock shiver before slowly sliding down his cleft.

“Sorry,” John said, squeezing some lube onto his hand. “Should’ve warned you, but I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s noth--” Sherlock’s voice broke off into a long groan as John circled his finger once around Sherlock’s entrance and pressed in without further preamble. He let his finger slide in and out with the movement of Sherlock’s hips, biting his lip as he watched. Sherlock’s voice breaking like that was almost as hot as the sight before him, perhaps even more.

“Do you know what I’m studying?” John asked, crooking his finger so that the tip slid over Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock grunted, circling his hips so that John’s finger pressed more firmly where he wanted it. “Medicine”--he tipped his hips again--”or animal husbandry.”

John paused, pulling his hand back a bit, before a guffaw hit him like a gut punch. The laugh dying out, John drizzled more lube onto his fingers, sliding two into Sherlock. 

“Animal husbandry,” John muttered. “No. Your first guess was correct.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, rocking against John’s fingers. His mouth fell open; his eyes drifted closed. “Thought so.”

John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in his fingers, his inner muscles squeezing and shifting around them. The feeling echoed in his cock, making it throb, and he twisted his fingers inside Sherlock, testing the stretch.

“How do you feel? Think you’re ready?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

Reaching for the windowsill, John came up to his knees, only to hit his head on the bunk above them. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his head as he retrieved a condom.

“Here.” He slid off the bed as he ripped open the packaging. “Roll over on your back. We won’t fit that way.”

With a huff, Sherlock flopped onto his back. “Next time, we are going to a hotel.”

John grinned as he rolled on the condom. “Deal.”

As John climbed between his legs, Sherlock said, “I didn’t imagine my first experience with anal sex to be missionary. How prosaic.”

John had lubed himself and was teasing the head of his cock over Sherlock’s hole when the words finally registered. “What?”

Sherlock pressed at John’s buttocks with his heels, urging him forwards, but John was pretty well stuck in place. First experience with anal sex? He just couldn’t get those words to compute. Sure, some people just didn’t like it. That was fine, but if that was the case, why was he doing it with John?

Growling, Sherlock said, “For God’s sake, John, it’s not as if I’ve been saving it.”

“So, all those blokes in the library?”

“Please. That would have been far too involved and messy for the stacks.”

John cocked his head, holding Sherlock’s thighs still as Sherlock tried to wriggle down and push John forward. He shrugged, falling forward with one hand braced by Sherlock’s shoulder and the other on his cock.

“Well, far be it for me to make your decisions for you.”

Sherlock grunted as the head of John’s cock slipped inside, and his head tipped back. “I agree.”

God, he was tight. And so slick. His hips were in constant motion, making John slide minutely in and out, shifting the muscles surrounding him. From between bitten lips, Sherlock whined, his eyes imploring, flitting from John’s face to his groin and back again. 

John knew that they needed to go slow. He certainly didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, but how was he supposed to hold back now? He had been so turned on for so long now, and here was Sherlock, the man who fueled a thousand fantasies, begging for it, restless and desperate underneath him. John’s hips shifted in small, rocking thrusts, and he pushed open Sherlock’s thighs to watch himself slowly disappear into Sherlock.

Each thrust pushed a breath from Sherlock’s lungs, some of them forming into words like _more, John,_ and _yes_. And this time, it was John’s turn to whine, dropping his head nearly to Sherlock’s chest as he gathered every bit of self control he possessed to keep himself from thrusting home. They were close. Just a bit more, and John would be deep inside Sherlock, their groins tight against each other.

Sherlock’s hips tipped up, and John felt the hard bundle of nerves slide against his glans, pulsing as Sherlock tilted his hips further, planted his feet and lifted, all but grinding John’s cock to his prostate. John trembled. His arms and legs shook, threatening to give out at any moment. It was all too much. The sight and feel of Sherlock’s movements. The stopping and starting. The hours of winding himself up.

“I can’t--” John breathed. “I need-- I need to come, Sherlock.”

John’s hips kept up their rocking, his balls finally nestling against Sherlock’s arse as Sherlock pressed his heels to John’s buttocks and said, “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

With a broken groan, John gave into his body. He thrust home, his thighs slapping the skin on Sherlock’s arse. And once he was there, he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. He pounded into Sherlock, falling against his body. A sound, loud and inhuman, tore from his lungs. He didn’t care. All that mattered was the way Sherlock felt underneath him and around him. The tight, wet heat of his body.

John wrapped his arms behind Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him down into each thrust. Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s biceps. His body shuddered, his voice mixing with John’s until he couldn’t tell whose was whose. John’s impending orgasm burned through him like a fuse, the tension and heat building in his groin until it exploded outward, and it felt like dying. His breath caught in his throat, his moans of pleasure distorting into sobs as he spilled into Sherlock.

His thrusts slowed and stilled, his body convulsing in aftershocks several times before he was finally able to take a deep breath. “Did you…”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his mouth slack, and John was afraid he might be asleep until a limp hand patted his hip.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet and rough. He licked his lips. “I did.”

John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting some of his body weight settle onto Sherlock. He sighed. “God.”

Sherlock hummed, fingertips drawing slow circles on John’s arse cheek.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

As Sherlock shook his head, the skin on his nose crinkled, and John just could not resist the urge to touch it. He slid his fingertip between Sherlock’s eyebrows down to the tip of his nose, watching the skin smooth below it. Rubbing the same fingertip over Sherlock’s top lip, he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest slow and even out.

“I have extra pyjamas if you want to sleep here.”

Sherlock hummed again, snuggling down into the space between the mattress and John’s body, getting the pillow divot just right for his head. Well, that rather seemed a foregone conclusion. So, John slid out of Sherlock’s body and tossed the condom in the rubbish tin. With that done, he shifted and wriggled against Sherlock until there was a sufficient space for his body. They would need to clean up and put on some clothes, but that could wait.

Sherlock’s breath ruffling the hair at his temple, John smiled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. :) Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. It was a lot of fun to write. And as always, many thanks for the beta, MonikaKrasnorada.
> 
> Happy Halloween, and happy NaNo eve!


End file.
